There's No Such Thing as a Modest Mother

I’m sure someone warned me that upon the birth of your child, all modesty flies out the window.  First of all, on the delivery table, they have you essentially naked—with a small gown and legs spread eagled for all to see.  Then they have nurses coming to look around in there, to poke and prod and supposedly diagnose progress.  If I knew how many people would’ve been staring at my hoo-haw, I may never have had the guts to give birth! 

   So, at least you’re warmed up when it comes to breastfeeding, right?  Immediately after the doctor pulls this huge being (okay, maybe not so huge, but it sure feels like it!) out of my body, I don’t even have a second to recoup before the nurses are grabbing my breasts, trying to get the perfect position for my young boy to feed.  We spend the next hour of his life letting him suck, let go, and then latch back on.  It’s apparent that hardly anything is coming out and my poor son is getting frustrated, crying in between feedings. 

   The next few days aren’t much better in the hospital.  Every time a nurse comes in, she’s plopping out one of my breasts like it’s one of her medical tools, and pressing my son to me.  She doesn’t hesitate to stick her hands in there to help re-adjust as needed; we have to get the right position or I’ll be sorry later, she keeps reminding me.

   My milk still hasn’t come in, but when it does…that’s enough to make someone want to lose it.  My boobs inflate as big as balloons; my poor nipples are stretched beyond belief and leaking.  I’m so sore, I just want to have a hot bath and forget about this entire ruckus.  My son has a different agenda.

   By the time I leave the hospital, I vow if anyone ever touches my boobs again, I may punch their lights out.  But, within an hour, I’m sitting at home—doing…guess what?  You got it—breast-feeding!  I can’t go anywhere because my precious angel has quite the appetite and is basically attached to my chest 24/7.  Didn’t somebody say this was supposed to be a time of bonding?  If masquerading as an open-all-night 24-hour cafeteria equals “bonding,” I guess that’s what’s happening.
   Within a few days of being home, my breasts are still sore; blisters surround my nipples. He’s obviously been latching on wrong.  That damn nurse was right!  So off to the hospital I go for one more poor woman to grope my boobs and show me what I’m doing wrong. 

   It’s amazing what mothers’ can endure…it truly is.  Eventually, my son and I got the breast-feeding thing down.  We’d feed at the same times pretty much so I was free to do things as needed in between.  Hey, when the time called for it, nobody said feeding in the car, pulled over on the side of the road, was a bad thing.  Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

   At three months, when I had to return to work, I decided to let the breastfeeding go and buy bottles and formula.  Rather than be elated as I’d been expecting, I was depressed.  I went back and forth on the decision probably a hundred times, driving both myself and my husband crazy.  Deep down, I’d become attached to those moments alone, rocking and feeding my son.  I was giving him something no one else could, and although those first few months were tough—I knew I didn’t want to let it go. 

   It’s amazing how with time, I learned how to let go of the modesty, and embrace the open and raw parts of being a mother—even when it included having to give every part of myself.

~Trina

Moms Raising Boys and Their Endless Energy...The Boys; Not So Much The Moms

One of the things I dreamt about most when I dreamed of having children was reading to them in bed, all snuggled beneath the covers, with their heads resting on me. 

   They are 2 ½ and 1 ½ and I’m still waiting for this particular dream of mine to unfold.  You see, I have two boys.  I started reading to each of them when they were in my belly.  Now, the readings have become a part of our bedtime ritual.  It was getting pretty exciting when Luke started to learn words and we’d slowly browse through a book – I’d point to a picture and he’d holler out the matching word.  As Luke learned the alphabet, we’d search the pages for letters he recognized.  That was the extent of our readings.  I knew that any day now, with excitement, he’d want to start reading the stories along with me. 

   This summer, we got him a sturdy, Cars toddler bed (within the first hour the Cars sticker was ripped off).  That night, I climbed into his red bed adorned with Toy Story sheets and he hopped in right next to me.  This is it, I thought, anticipating the big moment.  I pulled the sheets up over us, opened the book and began to read the first page of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  Little brother Zealand—hearing me reading, decided to climb up, too.  How exciting!  He crawled over me, his knees poking my shin; toenails scraping over my thigh.  But he found a spot, and there we were.  I pulled the sheet up over us and reread the first page so Zealand wouldn’t miss a thing. 

   On page three, the hungry little blonde comes across the porridge.  Luke had turned his body 90 degrees with his feet propped on his bedside table.  He was revving his engine apparently, ‘brrrm brrrrm’ as he announced he was a car and going really, really fast.  Zealand was tugging and bending and shoving the page I was trying to read.  He had a mission to destroy the page, not read it.  I swiftly pulled the book from his grip as if I were a three-year-old on the playground, rightfully grabbing back my toy.  He pulled himself to his feet and began to bounce away.  Then, Luke flipped over in a millisecond and jumped out of bed, his elbow flailing into my chest, his other hand smashing my stomach flat, and snatched the book. 

   “No more book, Mommy!” he announced. 

   I was heartbroken!  My cozy little dream.  Then just frustrated… 

   I yanked the book back and said in my stern mommy voice, “We are going to sit here and read this book, right now, or I am going to leave this room!”  That voice is usually saved for moments when he hits his brother or when Zealand tries to scale the entertainment center.  I quickly realized it would take more than a new toddler bed to sway these boys from their inherent verve. 

   Defeated, I looked at them, opened my arms out to the room, inviting them to run and play, and pulled myself up on the bed.  I made a comfy spot and read the familiar story of a broken chair and a little girl fast asleep.  In the background, I heard car noises—helicopter noises, a basketball bouncing off the wall,  the sound of Zealand climbing up the outside of his crib, the click of the fan being turned on and off, then on again, and their loud, boyish laughter.  

   I remembered some of the many conversations I’d had with my friends who had daughters.  The majority of them will cuddle up for book after book after book.   As I glance up, I wish that at least one of them would want to sit still and read with me…but seeing the joy on their faces as they play with one another into the wee moments before bed, well, I'll be darned if that doesn't delight me!